


As Lark Falls Headlong

by Mertiya



Series: Gondolin Forged [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ableism, Ableist Language, Angband-positive, Consensual Mind Control, Explicit Consent, Fall of Gondolin, Fantastic Racism, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Light BDSM, M/M, Medical Procedures, Self-Hatred, Technology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:01:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26343043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya
Summary: Maeglin, outcast in Gondolin for the strange patterns of his skin and the twist of his foot, is taken by Angband, where he struggles with whether to tell the strange Lieutenant that the song in his blood will open the shield of Gondolin.Gondolin, forged.
Relationships: Maeglin | Lómion/Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon, Maeglin | Lómion/Sauron | Mairon, Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Series: Gondolin Forged [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1920034
Comments: 14
Kudos: 63





	As Lark Falls Headlong

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Just As They Were](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25799737) by [lemurious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemurious/pseuds/lemurious). 



> ALL my thanks to lemurious, for writing the Arda Forged series that inspired this, as well as letting me spin off / play with her universe and just generally being encouraging. In particular--I took her idea about the Elves being eugenicists and ran with it, as well as a more technological slant on Angband.
> 
> Thanks to moiety for helping me out with some details and listening to me throw excerpts at her.
> 
> Title from the Lay of Leithian.

Aredhel loved her Lómion from the moment he was born, tiny and squalling and jigsawed all across with patterns of light and shadow. At the time, she still saw Eöl through the haze of a strange love, but even without that she would have been grateful to him. He barely glanced at the strange twist of the baby’s ankle or the odd chiaroscuro pattern of his skin, and there was no suggestion of giving him up. Of course, when he refused to acknowledge the child for twelve years, Aredhel’s gratitude quickly vanished. 

Maeglin, born beneath a translucent veil, was never touched by the spell laid on his mother. He never loved the Elf who sired him, but it was a long time before they were able to escape. Aredhel’s stories of the fabulous hidden city she had come from consumed Maeglin’s imagination almost from the moment he was able to comprehend them. 

“It is protected by a mighty enchantment,” Ammë told him. “There are only two ways to find it. Either it must be revealed from within or your blood must sing to it, and it will accept you.”

“My blood will sing to it, Ammë?” Maeglin wanted to know.

“Yes, for you carry my blood in your veins.”

And Eöl did not. Maeglin held this thought close to his heart whenever Eöl beat him. There was somewhere in the world he could not enter. There was somewhere in the world that Maeglin and Aredhel would be safe.

Maeglin never did find out how Eöl penetrated Gondolin’s shield, even after he learned a great deal more about it. Perhaps he had acquired a vial of Aredhel’s blood, although it was supposed to be able to tell the difference between a part and the whole. Perhaps it was Maeglin’s fault—if somehow some of her genetic material was retained in Eöl’s system from the conception. He didn’t know, and he never found out. In the end, all that really mattered was that he did, and he took Aredhel away and left Maeglin quite alone.

Eöl hurt Maeglin in a way that seemed intensely personal, perhaps as part of his quest for control. Maeglin never found that out either. What he did find out was that in Gondolin, he was not _personally_ disliked. Those from Gondolin were kind to Maeglin’s face. They were almost painfully accommodating of his still-twisted and often painful right foot. In fact, Maeglin got quite used to refusing assistance when he was climbing stairs. Some people were very, very insistent. Turgon was very _loud_ about how in Gondolin it was all right to be _different_ —by which he meant ugly or disfigured—and the rest of the Elves followed his lead. Idril—treated him quite normally, so maybe it was no wonder that Maeglin fell instantly and completely in love with her. 

When she didn’t reciprocate his feelings, well—Maeglin _didn’t_ respond well. “It’s because I’m crippled, isn’t it?” he snarled. “You’re just like them. They all think I should have been smothered at birth, they’re just too polite to say it!” He cried himself that sleep tonight, knowing in his heart he had smashed with his own hands any last chance at the only real friendship he’d ever had.

If he had hoped that things would change after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, well—they did. Turgon turned in on himself and worked frenetically on strengthening Gondolin’s shield. His eyes now seemed to hold suspicion whenever Maeglin came into view, and Maeglin soon began to confine himself more and more to his chambers, watching the city from behind his curtains, where no one could comment on his foot or his ugly mottled skin. It wasn’t so bad, watching Idril happy with Tuor and their child.

Any kind of happiness did not last. Maeglin hadn’t really expected it to. Soon enough, curfews were being put in place, and whenever he went out, he was met with more suspicion than ever. Once, the soldiers beat him quite badly before Idril stopped them. She tried to reach out a hand for Maeglin, but, bloodied and battered, he spat at her and fled. It wasn’t safe for him in Gondolin anymore, and he did not want to die. He had never wanted to die. The only thread running throughout his life had been survival, and it might hurt but he found he could not relinquish the only success he had ever had.

So he began to roam. He knew enough of the shield to know how to get it to let him slip out without Turgon knowing—a weakness he probably ought to have reported, but it would only work for someone of Finwë’s direct descent, and he had always known he might need a back door to slip away out of. He could never have given up that touch of control; it would have sent him mad, if he wasn’t mad already. 

He thought he was so clever, until the patrol from Angband found him in the mountains. Hearing the approach of the Orcs and seeing their twisted shadows on the walls in the flickering lanternlight brought him horribly home to the forest and waiting for Eöl’s approach at night, and he tried to flee. He fell, of course, his rounded foot giving out beneath him before he’d made it ten yards. His lantern spun out of his grasp, and the glass fell out and shattered as the flame went out. _No_. Useless. Pressing his face into his arms, he tried to silence his breathing, hoping that in the labyrinth of passages and the dimness of all of them, the patrol would miss him, somehow.

They didn’t. They found him lying on the ground in a pathetic heap and pulled him up roughly, speaking all the time in a harsh language Maeglin did not know, that grated on his ears. One of them put its hands all over him, and Maeglin shut his eyes and tried to slip away into his mind, as he had done long ago, still living with Eöl. They did not hurt him or strip him, though. Hands found his twisted foot and careful, broad fingers probed at it, halting when Maeglin made a breathy, pained noise. He had probably sprained his ankle; he knew the signs.

One of them picked him up and said something in a guttural voice. Maeglin shook his head frantically. “I won’t tell you anything! Let me go!”

The Orc looked back to their companions and said something else, but Maeglin still couldn’t understand it, and he knew if he tried to struggle, they’d kill him at once. There was a frustrated conversation, and then Maeglin found himself lifted up and slung onto the back of one of the Orcs like a sack of potatoes. Then the whole band began to run. Maeglin shivered, shut his eyes, and told himself he wouldn’t cry. If he couldn’t do anything else, he would die well.

He lost track of the time quickly, but it seemed all too soon that they had arrived at a black fortress. Maeglin briefly roused himself out of his fear to pay some attention to the material of the walls, which was a black metal he didn’t recognize, surprisingly well-concealed by the surrounding rocks. The Orcs paused at a forbidding, spiky gate, and then—to Maeglin’s shock and horror—each one pricked their finger at the entrance, just as if they were entering Gondolin. If the Enemy knew this— _all_ they would have to find out was who Maeglin was, and it wouldn’t matter what he told them. They’d be able to find Gondolin. His bones—his blood—his very _self_ —made him a walking traitor. Of course it did. Eöl’s discarded child, who killed his mother and drove away his only friend with his glass-sharp words. Ill-omened since birth.

They took him deep into the dark fortress, though it was not so dark inside. Sharp white lights ran down the corridors, as white as moonlight, as bright as sunlight. They hurt Maeglin’s eyes, and he had to squint against them, tears leaking from the corners.

He was taken to a small chamber tucked into the wall with a bed and a little steel sink. Maeglin tried it, and there was running water— _hot_ running water. He splashed it on his face and could not help but feel better. The door was locked, of course, but he sat down on the bed and put his face in his hands, letting the throbbing in his ankle rest. 

After a little time, someone knocked, and then the door was opened. Maeglin looked up at a fiery, beautiful figure, with hair like red-gold, barely tamed beneath a thin circlet of silver, his gold-trimmed crimson tunic embroidered with a single eye in the center of it. Maeglin’s heart thumped and his breath stopped. _Sauron_. Those beautiful eyes flickered across him, summing him up, perhaps looking right into his very soul, but the expression in those sharp eyes was nothing Maeglin could have expected.

“They tell me you are injured,” Sauron said, entering. “I have some skill as a healer. What is it that troubles you, Elf of Gondolin?”

Maeglin whimpered. So they did know. He shook his head.

“I am afraid I do not have time to argue with you,” Sauron said. “There is a great deal I must attend to for this fortress to continue running. What is the injury?”

What harm could he do by telling him that? “M-My foot. Ankle. Sprained, I think.”

“Hm.” The beautiful, terrible figure entered his cell and knelt at his feet. “This one? Ah—this may hurt.” Practiced hands lifted his foot, carefully removing the shoe. It did hurt, but Maeglin was used to the pain of a sprain, and he remained quiet as Sauron examined his ugly, misshapen right foot. “You’re right, it is sprained,” Sauron said, rising after a moment. “Easily mended.” He paused at the door. “Would you like it straightened as well?”

Maeglin stared at him, and those too-red lips quirked in amusement. “I have some skill as a healer, I told you.”

“I will tell you nothing,” Maeglin retorted. He had expected torment before bribery, but he schooled himself to be equally immune to both.

“Not even whether you would prefer to walk without pain? Stubborn, aren’t you?” Sauron laughed and left him. Maeglin pressed his face into the pillow—softer than the one in his bedroom back in Gondolin—and sobbed quietly.

~

Sauron didn’t return for a week. Maeglin was kept locked in but given food and water. Still, the isolation was painful enough. It would be too easy for him to crack from the isolation. He needed out.

“All right,” he said, as soon as Sauron entered his cell for the second time. “I’d like you to fix my foot.”

Sauron nodded. “How is the sprain?” he asked.

Maeglin shrugged. “Better. I’ve had worse.” He bit his lip as Sauron stepped forward and put his hand on the switch that Maeglin had found controlled the overhead lighting. “Could you not?” he bit out. “It hurts my eyes.”

“Does it.” But Sauron left the switch alone and walked over to him. “I’m afraid the surgery for your foot will be more painful than I calculated. We are somewhat lower on analgesics than I would like.”

“All right.” It was odd to be asked to opt into his own torture, but Maeglin found that he preferred it to the alternative. He wondered how far he could push this. “Can I say no?”

“If you like.” Sauron’s face betrayed amusement. “I did not need to tell you.”

Chewing on his lip, Maeglin considered this. “Can you fix my skin too?”

“Fix it?”

“Make me—beautiful.”

“But you are beautiful.” Maeglin froze as three long fingers touched his face delicately. “Shadow and light mingled, a living chiaroscuro.” Again that faint amusement. “I suppose the Elves of Gondolin did not find it so? But presumably your mother did, or you would not stand before me now.”

Maeglin’s shoulders hunched. “Don’t you _dare_ talk about my mother!”

“No?” Elegant eyebrows went up, and Sauron leaned down, grinning, his face suddenly the face that Maeglin had expected on the first day. “At least she was an Elf with _sense_ ,” he bit out. “Whoever she was.”

There wasn’t really a good way for Maeglin to argue with that, and he ground his teeth at being backed into a corner. “Fine,” he snarled. “Forget about my skin. I’ll stay _ugly_.”

“What a thing to say about your mother’s finest creation,” Sauron responded lightly. “I’ll want to wait a few weeks before the surgery to let the sprain heal a little more. The swelling might complicate things.”

“Let me out of here,” Maeglin begged before he could think. “If you have to chain me up, fine, but— _please_ —I don’t like to be caged.”

Those glittering eyes flickered across him. “If you are implanted with a tracking jewel, I could give you run of a fair amount of the fortress. Is that what you’d like?”

It wasn’t as if he could go back to Gondolin anyway. Fervently, more fervently than Maeglin really wished, he nodded. 

“All right.”

~

The tracking jewel did not even hurt, though it itched beneath Maeglin’s skin. It did not seem to do all that much, either. He was permitted to wander about the fortress largely as he saw fit, though he had to hobble through most of it. Strangely, it was constructed in a way that let him move around much more easily than Gondolin, which was full of unpleasantly steep staircases. Here, in the Enemy’s fortress, there were ramps winding up most places and even a few rooms that could be moved from floor to floor. Even with his sprained ankle, it was easy to move around.

For some days, he wandered. Then, bored and frustrated, he sought out the forge. It seemed to be mostly tended by Orcs, and he still did not really understand their language, but he was able to get himself installed at a bellows somewhere, just for _something_ to do. Sauron found him there, gave him a searing look, and then left him alone. That night, a little handwritten book appeared in his quarters. When Maeglin opened it, he found the strange sounds of the Orcs written out phonetically in the pages with translations beside them. For some reason, it made him cry.

He learned it, though. The sounds began to make sense to him. He started trying to talk to the Orcs, for lack of anyone else, and found that they were kind enough, in their rough fashion. They could hardly have indepth conversations, but at least they were able to communicate. The Orcs—didn’t care that Maeglin couldn’t walk properly. They didn’t even notice his skin.

Sauron—Lieutenant Mairon, as Shufharz and Magdud kept correcting him—waited another several weeks before seeing to his foot. It _was_ very painful, but Shufharz sat beside him and let him dig his nails into her arm and gave him a piece of wood to bite. After it was over, Mairon bound it tightly and told him it would take more time to heal, but when it did, it would heal straight and sound.

“It will be all right, little shadow,” Mairon said softly, stroking Maeglin’s dark hair with its single white streak. Maeglin thought Mairon probably thought he was asleep or still dazed from the pain, but he looked up into flaming eyes and turned his head into the touch, unable to help himself. Mairon sucked in an unsteady breath and did not move for a long moment. Then he pulled back his hand as if Maeglin were the fire and he had been burned and said to Shufharz, “See that he gets back to his chambers safely.”

Shufharz gathered him in her strong arms. “Never thought I see that,” she whispered, as best as Maeglin could understand.

“What?”

Her response was too complex for him to follow, but as she took him through the door of the surgery, she spoke a few words of Sindarin, “Lieutenant. Soft.”

~

Mairon seemed to start hanging around more often, after that. At first, Maeglin thought he was just keeping watch over the healing foot, but he soon realized it was more than that. He did not understand what it _was_ —Mairon was not asking searching questions; he was not torturing Maeglin; he was not particularly trying to extract any information, as far as Maeglin could tell. He was just, oddly, there. Underfoot at all times, even when Maeglin was trying to learn the Orcs’ ways of forging, correcting Maeglin’s grip on their hammers, or bringing him a chair and fussing at him to take the weight off his still-healing foot.

“What is _wrong_ with you?” Maeglin demanded finally. “You are always _here_. I am not going to tell you anything about Gondolin—you know that—so why are you _hovering_?”

Mairon flinched. “Your foot is still—”

“You oversee the healing of everyone in this fortress! I do not believe that one lone elf who is healing just fine is your foremost concern!”

Mairon licked his lips. “Well, perhaps I enjoy your company,” he said finally, irritably, running one hand through his hair.

“ _What_?” Maeglin demanded, because it was one thing for _Orcs_ to befriend him—they had no sense of beauty or ugliness, after all, and apparently no issues with deformities. “Why?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“You are the lieutenant of Angband,” Maeglin pointed out. “I’m an Elf.”

“And these are Orcs of Angband that you are happily chattering and working with. What’s your point?”

“What do you _want_ from me?”

Red flickered in Mairon’s eyes. “I…”

“Whatever game you’re playing, stop it,” Maeglin told him sharply. “I won’t betray Gondolin.”

Mairon’s hand on his shoulder twisted him around painfully. “I will find my way into Gondolin with or without you, darkling,” he snarled. “That is _not_ why—” He shook his head. “You truly have no idea of your own worth, have you? Did they break you so thoroughly there?”

“Elves don’t break people,” returned Maeglin, as sternly as he could.

“No?” Mairon’s smile widened, and Maeglin felt something inside him _twist_ , because he had seen that half-mad grin before and it did not bespeak anything _good_. Mairon leaned forward and whispered in his ear, warm breath ghosting across his neck, “But we both know that they do not consider you a _person_ , don’t we?”

Pain fractured through Maeglin’s mouth, and he realized he had bitten his lip. Roughly, he shoved Mairon aside and got to his feet, ignoring that pain too—everything else fading beneath the sudden, undeniable impulse to _run run run_ —

He staggered out of the forge, half-blinded by the bright lights in the outer hallway, ignoring Mairon’s shout for him to stop. He needed a place to go to ground, to hide, to shut everything _out_ , to stop his ears and his mind so he couldn’t hear that bitter _truth_ ringing through it in Mairon’s most silken voice. Another part of him knew he needed to examine it so he could examine the opposing side of it—the way he had been treated here, in the very fastness of the greatest Enemy.

So he did what he was best at: he ran and hid and looked for somewhere small and out of the way to lick his wounds, heedless of the pain in his ankle. And he found it. A little winding stair moved outward and upward, away from the main passages. Unlike most in Angband, the stairs were steeply cut, and it was sheer agony for Maeglin to climb, but he was driven onward by the pounding heartbeat in his chest and the whisper of Mairon’s voice in his ear.

At last, nearly fainting with the pain in his foot, he came to a door of black metal with no handle or indentation in it. By now, Maeglin recognized Mairon’s touch, and it made him wonder whether Gondolin’s shield had even originally been made by Elves. There was a needle by the door, which he knew was intended to be used for blood. Only the correct blood could open this door.

Well, he could try. It might kill him, Maeglin supposed, but on the other hand, that might actually be easier than grappling with what he was currently feeling like. Before he could pause to think, he reached out and pricked his finger. There was an instant of pain. The door hummed, and then, slowly—like watercolors spreading through a parchment—an eight-pointed white star faded into view on the door, which chimed and moved out of his path.

It was dark beyond the door, quite a bit darker than most of the rest of the fortress. There was a strange smell in the air, and Maeglin tasted metal on his tongue as he entered. But it was quiet, and his eyes were already adjusting. Perhaps it would do for his purpose. He took a step and then a second, and squeaked at the pain in his foot.

“Who is it? Mairon?” The rasping voice echoed from somewhere out of the shadows, and Maeglin froze, chilled to his bones, then tried to scramble backwards, but he could not find the door.

He heard the sound of someone shuffling towards him. “I can hear you breathing,” said the voice, cold and hoarse and distant, and Maeglin trembled, for he could see the enormous shadow now, a darker pool of black in the darkness. _Morgoth_.

Licking dry lips, he made no response, only pulled his knees into his chest.

“Why have you come to disturb me?” There was a sigh. “Have I forgotten…again…? The light. I suppose we must have some light.”

What should he do? Maeglin’s mind was a roaring mass of terror and nothing else. In the end, he did nothing, and a series of dim, painless lights flickered on.

Morgoth, the Dark Lord. Chaos incarnate. He who had smashed the lamps and brought darkness to Arda twice over. Maeglin’s first impression was that he looked— _tired_. He was tall, a full head taller than Mairon; his skin was the same fishbelly white as the lighter half of Maeglin’s, and there were purple shadows beneath his ice-blue eyes. He looked—oddly fragile, as if his _hröa_ were not quite bound to the world anymore. He stooped slightly to one side, and though his long, ink-black hair fell to his waist on one side of his head, on the other it was ragged and shot with white. He wore a soft robe that covered him from head to toe, and both hands were covered in dark gloves.

“Who are you?” he demanded, and Maeglin opened his mouth and shut it again. Such was the sudden command in that deep voice that he had nearly given his own name, his own parentage, his everything, without a thought.

“I am—I am an Elf of Gondolin,” he finally managed to get out.

“You are related to Fëanáro,” Morgoth said harshly, taking a swift step forward and reaching towards him before pausing. “Or the door would not have opened for you. What are you doing here?”

“I—I wanted somewhere to be alone,” Maeglin croaked. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

Thin lips twisted slightly. “And you came _here_? What an unlucky little Elf you must be.” The blue eyes narrowed. “You are the Elf Mairon spoke of. The one with the twisted foot. The ugly one.”

“Mairon does not think I’m ugly,” bit out Maeglin before he could think. Then he halted, appalled, sick fear rising in his gut.

“Mairon sees beauty in everything,” snarled Morgoth. “He says that _I_ am beautiful still. I was, once.” With a dangerous glint in his eye, he took another step towards Maeglin, who tensed, trying not to cower again. Then, quick as a wink, his almost majestic face went blank, and he crumpled to the ground, his form quivering rapidly, spreading like a shadow losing coherence.

In bewilderment, Maeglin crawled towards him. Something had hurt him—he looked as if he were feverish, but his muscles were taut, twisted-up, and trembling. With his head turned at a strange angle, Maeglin could see an ugly pattern of dark lines radiating up his neck, swollen and unhealthy-looking. 

What could he do? He didn’t want to touch Morgoth—he was too afraid—but he didn’t like to leave him abandoned on the floor like that either. With a grunt of pain, Maeglin got back to his feet and looked around. In the low light, he saw a large, luxurious bed on the other side of the room. Pillows—yes—that might help. He limped over, found a large one, and limped back, slipping it beneath Melkor’s convulsing head and shoulders. Then he squatted on his one good ankle, frowning, trying to decide what else to do. Perhaps he _ought_ to move the Vala a little—

He had only just reached out, his fingers still some little distance away, when the door opened, and he heard a warning cry. “Darkling— _no_!”

Mairon’s voice, urgent, stripped of all its usual sarcasm and amusement. Maeglin froze immediately. “I’m sorry!” he blurted. “I didn’t mean to—I don’t know what—”

“Have you touched him?” Mairon demanded, then, as Maeglin looked up, he grabbed Maeglin by the shoulders and pulled him bodily away. “ _Have you touched him_?”

“No—no, I just—I just found that pillow and—”

“Thank the stars. Don’t. Just stay there.” Mairon pushed him down, quite gently, and then hurried over to Morgoth. “My lord?”

A low, pained sound.

“Oh, my lord.” Mairon knelt beside him. “It will pass. Stay strong. I’m here. Your precious is here.” Why did Mairon not touch him either? He only knelt there, his shoulders bowed.

“Precious,” Morgoth croaked, the trembling abating slowly. “Yes.” Slowly, he pulled himself into a sitting position. He sounded exhausted and wrecked with pain, a state Maeglin was intimately familiar with. “Little flame.”

“I’m here,” Mairon said. “I’m here, my lord.”

“What—where is—where is Fëanáro? Was he not here?”

“No, lord.” Mairon’s voice sounded steady and calm. “You are a little confused, but don’t worry. It always passes quickly.”

“Confused—yes.” Morgoth sat up slowly. “The year, Lieutenant?”

“First Age. 510. You have returned from your captivity in Mandos.”

“Yes.” He growled under his breath. “Yes. For all the good it’s done.”

“It has done a great deal of good, my lord.”

An angry huff of breath.

“Do you think you can get up?”

“Don’t _coddle_ me, Lieutenant.”

Mairon sighed. “I am not coddling you. I am obeying the chain of command, by not _ordering_ you to do something quite simple, but if you find it _necessary_ to be childish about it—”

“How dare you speak to me like that, Lieutenant,” Morgoth said, but—dryly, as if he were used to this.

“Please get up, my lord, as I see that you are feeling much improved.”

Morgoth grunted, winced, and got to his feet. “So, this is your pretty little Elf.” He nodded at Maeglin, who flinched again.

Mairon stood up and went over to Maeglin. “I am afraid I spoke harshly to him earlier, and he—is very good at finding places he’s not supposed to be.”

Morgoth chuckled. “He’s…” He looked at the pillow on the floor and then back to Maeglin, “Kind and rather fearless, isn’t he?”

“I’m right here, you know,” Maeglin said without thinking, and they both looked at him.

The Dark Lord laughed. “ _Very_ fearless, I see.” He grinned at Maeglin. “Still holding tight to your allegiance to Gondolin?”

“I won’t tell you anything,” Maeglin repeated automatically, though he could still hear the ringing truth in Mairon’s merciless voice, _We both know that they do not consider you a person_. 

Mairon’s hand landed on his shoulder. “Very brave and very foolish,” he said in a low voice. “But fortunately for you, my lord respects the word ‘no.’”

Looking from one to the other, Morgoth fidgeted with the black gloves on his hands. “Do you know how you look at him, Elf?” he asked. “Dappled one?”

Maeglin shivered. He hadn’t even realized he _was_ looking at Mairon, at the way his red hair flowed down like flame from his head, at the sculpted beauty of his face and form. _Like Idril_ , his mind supplied, and _that_ sounded as truthful as Mairon’s earlier brutal earlier statement, and Maeglin suddenly wanted to fall through the floor. Surely he was going to be tortured to death _now_. He swallowed hard. “Um…”

“Do you know how you look at _him_ , Lieutenant?” Morgoth demanded, his voice sound low and darkly delighted.

With a challenging tilt of his chin, Mairon looked back at Morgoth. “I think you want to tell us, my lord.”

“He looks at you like I look at you,” growled Morgoth, and Maeglin shuddered, shutting his eyes. “And you look at him as you used to look at me.”

“No, my lord. As I _still_ look at you.” Heat flared around him, and Maeglin gave a soft whimper. Were they _flirting_? Was he being flirted _with_? He didn’t have any experience with this kind of thing. He wasn’t even sure what was going on.

“But you cannot have me,” Morgoth said, in a soft, almost neutral voice.

“Not if you will not let me try,” Mairon agreed, and Maeglin did catch a twist of sorrow.

“I will not.” Morgoth sighed. “I would that I could, little flame, but it is not safe.”

A huff of angry breath at Maeglin’s ear. “As you say, my lord.”

“There is nothing stopping me from watching, however,” Morgoth continued, and Mairon’s hand tensed on Maeglin’s shoulder. “If you agree. If your dappled Elf agrees.”

“Wh-What?” stammered Maeglin. Did he mean what it sounded like? Was he about to be forced into some kind of—no, that was ridiculous. Mairon had never forced him into anything, and Maeglin did not believe he would, even for the Dark Lord himself. Besides, Morgoth had just said “ _if_ he agrees.” Just like that. So…was he about to be _asked_ to…to what?

“I—I’ve never—um,” Maeglin got out. Did he _want_ to be asked? He felt heat flooding his face and rising to the tips of his ears as his mind presented an image of Mairon on his back, in a position he’d occasionally imagined Idril, but _Mairon_ , that flame-red hair spread across the pillow, crying out _Maeglin, Maeglin, please—_ as someone else _watched_ them, and—oh—oh, he _did_ want to be asked. 

At his ear, Mairon’s breath changed. “Little shadow,” he said, with a slight hitch, “is this something you would be interested in? If not—I promise you—you don’t have to say yes to it. If you are afraid of my lord, I will stake my own life—”

Maeglin turned towards him, catching at Mairon’s robes, then at his hair, and pressed their mouths together, quick and sudden and brief. “I’m not afraid,” he said angrily. “I do want it. I do.” He probably _ought_ to be afraid—not of Mairon, maybe, but of Morgoth, at least—but maybe he was just tired of trying to fight his nature. The people who accepted him. The people who had _saved_ him, protected him, care for him—his mother, and the folk of Angband. And Idril, but he’d ruined that. He didn’t want to ruin this.

“Kiss him, then,” Morgoth instructed, cool and remote. 

“I have to obey your orders, but Calwalómë does not,” returned Mairon, and Maeglin jerked slightly as he heard the echo of his true amissë in the word, realizing almost too late it was only another version of ‘little shadow.’

“I’ll obey,” he said hastily. “I’ll…”

“Will you?” purred Mairon. “What a good Elf. Then we shall both be obedient to our lord and master, unless…if you desire to stop…what word will you use?”

“I can’t just say ‘no’?” Maeglin asked in confusion.

“You could,” Morgoth agreed, “but then I couldn’t order you to pretend to protest. And it might be difficult to know whether you were asking to stop or simply…begging.” His harsh voice sounded almost as purring as Mairon’s for an instant, and Maeglin shivered and shuddered.

“Um, uh,” he stammered, then, “Idril. Idril. If I don’t want it—that’s what I’ll say.”

“Lieutenant,” Morgoth said, his harsh voice commanding. “On thy knees.”

Mairon went smoothly down onto his knees, his red head bowing to Maeglin. Maeglin gasped, and his cock twitched without him quite realizing it. “Good,” said Morgoth. Then, “Use thy mouth on him.”

“Ah—” Maeglin’s eyes widened, but he had no chance to prepare himself before those beautiful, slim hands were on him, carefully turning his tunic aside and pulling down his leggings so that his cock sprang free. Then— _heat wet slick—_ “ _Eru_ ,” gulped Maeglin, one flailing hand landing on Mairon’s head. A choked noise from behind him had to be Morgoth—he was laughing.

“Not quite, though the Lieutenant does have an inordinately talented mouth.”

Was this what it was _supposed_ to feel like? Maeglin had no idea. He had no point of reference. Mairon was looking _up_ at him, his eyes open and almost pleading. There were tears standing out at the edges of his eyes, and his lips were swollen around Maeglin’s cock. “I’m—I’m not hurting you, am I?”

Snort. Maeglin whined at the sensation of Mairon laughing around his erection.

“Believe me, even if you were, he wouldn’t mind,” Morgoth told him. “Lieutenant, take him to the bed. Elf—” He sighed impatiently, “I cannot keep calling you ‘Elf.’ Is Calwalómë thy name? Or an approximate substitute?”

“I’ll—you can call me that?” Maeglin managed, making a very unhappy noise as Mairon kissed the tip of his erection and then pulled back, standing up. “Don’t _stop_ ,” he whined desperately.

“Oh, don’t worry,” chuckled Morgoth. “There’s more where that came from. Take him to the _bed_ , Lieutenant. Calwalómë, thou’ll find a bottle of oil beside it. Take it out.” 

Mairon swept him up, throwing Maeglin carelessly over his shoulder, and Maeglin gasped and yelped and let himself be carried over and then deposited on the bed. He searched for the bottle and found it swiftly. On the other side of the bed, there was a dark, comfortable looking armchair. Morgoth sat down in it and leaned forward avidly. “Lieutenant,” he said, and he actually licked his lips. “Strip, lie flat on the bed and don’t move. I want to see all of thee as Calwalómë prepares thee.”

It was Mairon’s turn to whine, and Maeglin thought his voice sounded gorgeous like that. Then he stopped being able to think too hard about the voice, because Mairon was hastily disrobing, bearing an expanse of well-formed flesh that sent any blood that might have remained in Maeglin’s brain hastily downwards.

The Lieutenant of Angband was not unmarred, though Maeglin had half expected him to be. There was a deep, puckered scar along his left upper shoulder, so dipped and ugly that he suspected there was actual loss of muscle beneath it, which did explain Mairon’s slight hesitation in the forge sometimes, as if the arm he favored also pained him.

“Touch it,” Morgoth demanded, his voice dark and greedy, and Maeglin reached out and ran his fingers along the ridge of it. 

“Can you—feel that?” he asked. 

Mairon shook his head. “You’ll have to dig your nails in,” he said, continuing to shuck off his clothes, and then lying down on the bed. “I can feel it a little if you do that.”

“Precious,” sighed Morgoth. “Straddle him, Calwalómë. Take the oil with thee.”

Maeglin did, wondering if he was going to be told to let Mairon penetrate him. Wondering if he’d be able to do it. He’d _try_ , he knew that. But he might embarrass himself horribly. 

“Put your fingers in his scar and _twist_.”

Halting for a moment, Maeglin let his hand hover, but Mairon did not seem at all perturbed by the prospect, so he went ahead with it, and Mairon’s head turned to the side, eyes sliding shut as he moaned.

“I assume that was for Calwalómë’s benefit, so I will not punish thee for moving,” Morgoth said, sounding ever-so-slightly breathless. When Maeglin looked over, he saw that the Dark Lord had pulled aside his own robe and grasped himself. Maeglin gasped at the sight and hitched his hips against Mairon’s stomach, making his erection brush hot skin in a very tantalizing way. Mairon moaned again.

“My _lord_ —little shadow—please—”

“Please _what_ , little flame?” growled Melkor.

“Please fuck me, fill me up—” Mairon groaned, and Maeglin’s mouth fell open at the _thought_. Golden eyes flickered in amusement. “My lord, I am very much afraid we nearly made our little shadow come untouched.”

“ _Did_ I?” Valar, his voice was low and when it dropped so low Maeglin couldn’t even hear the rasp in it anymore, and it was like—the rumbling of the earth, or the purring of an immense big cat. “Well…we can’t have that. Calwalómë, wilt thou permit me to take a further liberty?”

“A…a liberty?” Maeglin croaked.

“Wilt let me ride thy mind? I won’t touch thy thoughts, only thy form.” He shrugged. “I doubt I _could_ do more now, broken as I am.”

It was a thought simultaneously tantalizing and chilling. But then Maeglin realized what it would mean—that Morgoth through him could touch Mairon, and they both seemed to want that a great deal. He nodded, shakily, and watched, transfixed, as blue flame flared in both of Morgoth’s eyes. Maeglin gave a little, choked cry at the sensation of sudden cold suffusing his body, a crude, clumsy intrusion, just short of painful. In the chair, Morgoth made a soft noise as well.

“I can feel your warmth,” he whispered, and Mairon’s eyes went wide.

“Oh, my _lord_ —” Tears had appeared in his eyes again, and he reached out and interlaced his fingers with Maeglin’s. It wasn’t Maeglin who tightened the grip, but it was Maeglin who sighed with pleasure.

“He is close, aren’t you, pet?” murmured Morgoth. “Well, we can’t have _that_.” He did _something else_ , and Maeglin choked and twitched his hips at the sensation and the warmth that shot from his cock to his sternum. “Now. Lieutenant. Oil Calwalómë’s member.”

“Yes, lord,” Mairon gasped, scrambling for the oil and nearly knocking it over in his hurry. He splashed some across his hand and then his hand was on Maeglin’s hardness, and Maeglin was squirming and moaning and begging because _oh_ —

“Patience,” whispered the grim lord in the chair, and _patience_ whispered the icy voice in his mind at the same time. “There will be more pleasure in a moment. Lieutenant, lie back and do not come unless I tell thee that thou mayst.”

“Yes—my lord—of course—” gasped Mairon. “I am yours, I am yours to command and if you will it I will not climax at all—”

“Oh, I don’t believe that level of self-sacrifice will be necessary, precious. Come, Calwalómë,let us take him.”

Maeglin waited, but he seemed to be the one in control now, so he slid off of Mairon and knelt between his legs. “I—I don’t exactly…” he said apologetically, and Morgoth laughed, from the side, from his mind. The icy chill took his arms and clumsily pulled Mairon’s hips up, then lined his erection up, and _then_ —

Stopped. “I trust thou canst take it from here,” Morgoth’s voice said in great amusement. Mairon whined.

“ _Please_ , little shadow, _please_ —”

“ _Oh—Mairon—nggg—_ ” Maeglin choked out as he thrust into slick heat and desperate warmth. Mairon cried out as well, and then Maeglin was fully seated _inside_ him, and he heard Morgoth make a wordless noise, almost a groan, felt the cold inside himself twist with pleasure. Something seized up inside Maeglin, and the cold reached up and cut it off, which felt—awful—and beautiful—pain and pleasure all at the same time. He sobbed. 

“Not yet,” grunted Morgoth. “Fuck him first.”

“Yes, yes, _yes_ —” 

“Please, my lord, please, may I move? I want—I want to move with you both—” Mairon begged, and Maeglin felt like he was drowning in pleasure at the sight of the cool, collected Lieutenant on his back, spread open, his blushing cock leaking onto his stomach, red-gold hair spread around him like liquid fire.

“I’ll permit it, little flame,” growled Morgoth.

“Thank you thankyouthankyou—” Mairon babbled, and Maeglin fell forward as Mairon’s heels tightened at his back, pulling him closer. He thrust clumsily into that delicious slick heat, and Mairon moaned. “Just—just a little deeper—”

“Thou heardst the Lieutenant,” Morgoth said darkly. His voice was no longer unaffected either; when Maeglin glanced over, he saw that there was a bright flush growing on those pallid cheeks. “Fuck him harder, little shadow.”

Maeglin stabilized himself with his hands and thrust again, deeper, whimpering as he did so. Mairon gasped and reached up a hand to fist in Maeglin’s hair. “ _More_ , please—”

“Hit him,” commanded Morgoth.

“H-Hit him?” Maeglin echoed.

“ _Please_ ,” Mairon gasped, and his hips were moving, starting up a clumsy rhythm between the two—three?—of them. 

“Here,” said Morgoth, and _here_ , and the icy cold reached out and took Maeglin’s arm, raising it and bringing it down flat and hard against Mairon’s cheek and snapping his head to one side. The red of Maeglin’s handprint blossomed on it a moment later, and Mairon’s hand tightened in Maeglin’s hair. And then they were moving—Maeglin didn’t know whether he was thrusting or Morgoth was thrusting or Mairon was impaling himself on Maeglin’s cock—maybe it was all three? But it was heat and fury and desperation, sweat and the smell of ash and metal—but also ice and the feeling of being wrapped in a storm wind—“Ah, _ahhhh_ , Mairon—M-Morgoth—”

_Melkor to you, Calwalómë_.

“Mmm— _hngh—Melkor—_ ”

“Master—Master, please may I come?” Mairon begged. His other hand was on the bed. “Please?”

“Ah—you don’t want to let your new pet see more of this?” Morgoth—Melkor murmured.

“I can’t—it’s been so long—I— _please_ —” His cock was twitching and he was biting his lip so hard Maeglin was surprised it wasn’t bleeding. Valar, he felt so good.

“I want to—I want to fill him up,” he managed. “Can we? M-My lord?” His own cock was twitching and fighting against the icy bands surrounding it.

“Well—if both of you are begging for release—I—I cannot say I am entirely averse—”

“Then I may, my lord?” Mairon asked eagerly.

“If you can do so without a hand on your cock.”

A soft, desperate whine. Maeglin grinned to himself, suddenly. Before the iciness inside him could catch on, he pulled back enough that he could lean down and sloppily wrap his lips around Mairon’s cock. Mairon howled and promptly thrust upward into his mouth; bitter salt burst across Maeglin’s tongue, and he choked and coughed. Melkor’s touch twisted him back upright and drove him back into Mairon, and then the cold released him, and everything seemed to release him—except Mairon, who was clenching around him and pulling more out of him as he moaned and cried out.

He collapsed on top of Mairon, who pulled him close immediately and kissed him, apparently unconcerned with the taste of himself on Maeglin’s tongue. They rutted sloppily against each other for a few more moments.

“Very clever,” Melkor’s voice said hoarsely. “Next time you do that, little shadow, you’re getting a beating.”

Maeglin froze, and Mairon’s arm tightened protectively around him. “Only if you want it,” he murmured lazily. “My lord, don’t frighten our new acquisition.” He licked Maeglin’s ear. “You’ll have to forgive him, he’s too used to me. I am very fond of pain.”

The icy tendrils were withdrawing finally, and Maeglin whined with the emptiness at having them leave, even as he relaxed against Mairon’s side. He felt—warm—tired—beyond that, something else. Maeglin blinked. The constant feeling of eyes-on-the-back-of-his-neck—that he could not remember having ever been different—was gone. Was this what safety felt like?

There wasn’t even anything stopping him as he rolled up on one elbow and spoke. He could shape his prior objections, but they simply—didn’t mean anything anymore. “My lords, I am Maeglin of Gondolin, sister-son of King Turgon, and I will release the shield of Gondolin for you.”

There was a sudden, pregnant silence. Then Mairon brushed a lock of hair out of Maeglin’s eyes and said, sounding unusually sincere, “Well. That was not what I was expecting, little shadow, but—thank you.”

“Only not right now,” Maeglin hurried to say. “Because right now I’m tired, and I want to sleep.”

He heard Melkor chuckle. “Sleep then, Maeglin of Gondolin. You’re certainly earned it.”

~

The battleground below was a chaotic mess, and Mairon tried not to chew anxiously on a knuckle. He did not _like_ Maeglin being down there in the midst of all of it. Not even with the tracer jewel implanted so that he could follow his every movement. Certainly not with Mairon all the way up here—but someone had to direct the battle, and it was always going to be him. 

“Thuringwethil, report,” he said as plumes of flame burst from the now-unprotected spires of Gondolin.

“First bombardment complete. Casualties look minimal.”

“Good.” He traced the hologram with his fingers, frowning. “Turgon, if you have any sense at all, you’ll surrender now,” he said aloud, though he didn’t hold out much hope. Not a single Elf of Finwë’s line appeared to have the sense they were born with—although Mairon had to admit in Turgon’s position, he might have had a hard time getting himself to surrender either.

The little point of light that was Maeglin wound through the streets of Gondolin, and Mairon cursed under his breath. Where was he going? He was supposed to head directly for the exit. “ _Maeglin_ ,” he snarled, switching communication frequencies.

“I have to make sure Idril and her family are all right,” Maeglin snapped back, his voice high and tight. 

“I told you—”

“I have to do it myself. I have to.”

Fuck. Mairon’s fists clenched. Of course he’d gone off by himself to take care of the girl. Impossibly stupid, self-sacrificing— _Elf_. Fine. Two could play at that game. “Gothmog,” he said, “I may need you to take over for a few minutes.”

“Of course, Lieutenant.” The plane’s engines roared. Mairon charted the course and watched the dots, trying not to get too distracted by Maeglin. But he did _not_ like how close Maeglin was getting to the edge of the city—the city’s walls. Oh, he did not like that at all.

Well—perhaps he ought to trust Maeglin to be able to get himself out of any trouble he’d gotten himself into. But Maeglin could be very stupid and very stubborn sometimes, and Mairon couldn’t stand the thought of what the Elves of Gondolin might do to him, if they realized—and they were so, so primed to realize. The way they’d treated him—

Change of plans. Maeglin was _worryingly_ close to the edge. “I need a drop,” Mairon said tersely, then quickly gave the coordinates to the pilot. “Right away, right—”

His muscles were already carrying him to the hatch. The chute was weight-rated for two balrogs; it would certainly be able to take the weight of one Maia and a malnourished Elf. Was this foolish? Probably. Was it worth it? For Maeglin, certainly. At worst, he’d lose his vantage point and a few minutes of concentration on a battle that might be important, but certainly wasn’t difficult. The alternative was too horrifying to contemplate, but Mairon’s brain was insisting on providing it anyway. He’d seen Elves fall long distances before. It wasn’t pretty.

“Hatch open,” he instructed; the howling of the wind cut into his thoughts, and he stared out and down, judging the distance by eye even though he knew he didn’t need to. His muscles tensed and he was ready to go at exactly the same moment that the indicator told him to. _Come on, come on_ —the wind caught him, and he spread his arms to control the fall a little.

Maeglin was on the top of the walls, and the crumbling stone was giving out from underneath his heels. There was a sword pointed at his throat. _No—no—please—Maeglin—jump, I’ll catch you!_

That dark head tipped up, and Maeglin spread his arms and shut his eyes and went backwards—went over. Mairon cursed again and brought his arms into his chest to increase his speed. He had to be in time—it was a long drop, but it was a long distance to cover—but he _had_ to be in time—

He was. Maeglin hadn’t fallen more than a quarter of the way when Mairon caught up, grabbed him, and deployed the chute, which blossomed out above them, a vast red flame against the smoke-filled grey of the sky. Maeglin gasped, his eyes flying open, as their fall slowed rather suddenly and unpleasantly. “Mairon—I—I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I thought—”

“I’ve got you, little shadow,” Mairon told him, knowing Maeglin would be able to feel the panicked rapid-fire beat of his heart. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

“I thought there would be no one to catch me,” whispered Maeglin, and his tears splashed burning against Mairon’s face.

“I will _always_ be there to catch you,” Mairon told him shakily. “Always.”

They drifted aimlessly towards the forest below. “Idril was my friend,” Maeglin explained tiredly. “She—she did believe me, I think, when I went back, but her husband—well. I think they’re safe? I hope they get out safely.”

“I hope Turgon has the sense to surrender soon,” Mairon retorted, a little biting. “Not that his family is known for their sense, present company excepted.”

Maeglin laughed, also sounding a little shaky. “Not sure present company ought to be excepted. Um…is it going to be a problem that you’re here and not—”

“I have full faith in my commanders,” Mairon told him. “And no one I have faith in enough to give a mission of this importance.”

He felt the temperature of Maeglin’s cheek rise, pressed against his own. “You told _me_ not to go off and do something myself.”

“Yes, well, I don’t always follow my own advice,” Mairon admitted irritably.

“I’m glad,” Maeglin said quietly. “I—thank you.” He shifted slightly in Mairon’s arms to kiss him, and for a few moments, they were floating in each other’s arms. Then they landed with a bump in a tree. “Well, getting down is going to be a mess,” Mairon sighed, and Maeglin burst out laughing.

~

_One year later_.

Idril Celebrindal held Eärendil and hummed to herself, looking out over the waters of Sirion. It was a peaceful, sunlit day. Tuor would return soon, and, in the meantime, she had nothing to do but to sit, cuddle her son, and wonder what to do now that she was mostly healed. The stray block of masonry that had struck her foot during the escape from Gondolin would not have been so devastating if there had been time to see to it, but there had not been, and then there had been the infection, and—she did not _like_ not being able to walk. The loss of a foot was far from the worst injury she had seen inflicted during her life, and she still lived—her child would not grow up motherless.

She hoped Tuor would return soon; she could feel the beginning of a blue mood creeping up on her, and he was unfailingly good at dispelling those. A soft rustling noise drew her attention, and she looked over to the edge of the bower, near the archway, to see that a small, oddly-shaped paper parcel had been placed there. A flash of motion in the trees suggested that the person who had left it was already retreating.

With a frown, she reached for her crutches. “Eärendil, my love, sit here a moment.” He made a small, happy, assenting noise, and she got up and made her way over, collecting the parcel. It was light in her hands, and she tucked it under one arm, reseating herself before opening it.

Inside it was a slim, silver shape, shining in the sunlight. Idril gasped, running her fingers down the top and sides of a carefully constructed metal foot with a tangle of wires coming out of one end, then gasped again when it whirred and moved slightly at her touch before subsiding. It was jointed and light, and it looked as if it would strap directly onto her ankle. There was a note tucked into the side, and she opened it with shaking fingers.

_To the first person who ever tried to be my friend:_

_There are instructions for using this folded up inside it. It should respond well, I believe. I’m sorry for everything._

_\--M._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Intertwined](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27132116) by [lemurious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemurious/pseuds/lemurious)




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